


Unbirthday

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-28
Updated: 2009-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthdays make Sylar grumpy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbirthday

Sylar’s birthday is in January; Luke’s is in September. They let the days pass like any other, one year older, or not, in Sylar’s case, without candles or cake. Sylar says that birthdays are a scam. He says, “Being born is nothing to be proud of. The only things worth celebrating are things you’ve earned.”

Luke remembers the dusty red Hot Wheels car that Sylar still has tucked away somewhere and, aloud, he teases that Sylar obviously never got what he wanted as a child. He says, “C’mon, dude, I’ll get you an Easy-Bake Oven, maybe then you won’t be such a grinch,” and ends up thrown across the room, with a fat lip to match his smart mouth.

Privately, Luke thinks that Sylar’s always been so strong, he doesn’t know that for some people, for _Luke_, making it through another year, scarred and bruised but still alive, is the hardest thing they’ve ever had to do. Until, one day, when it’s dark and quiet and Sylar’s holding Luke so tight that Luke’s scared shitless he’s about to leave, he tells Luke about the time he nearly didn’t make it, about the woman he called an angel, who was working for the devil. And Luke decides that maybe birthdays remind Sylar too much of the year he almost didn’t have one.

They first meet on the last Thursday in May, and that, Luke thinks, when a year has gone by, is something worth celebrating. In the back of his mind, he guesses, with a blush, that it’s their anniversary but he never thinks of it like that. He sees it as a second birthday; a rebirthday, he’d like to call it, if that didn’t sound so much like touchy-feely New Age bullshit. It feels like he was never really alive until Sylar came along and he likes to think that maybe Sylar feels the same way too. After all, there has to be a reason he keeps coming back.

+

Luke wanders through the mall when he’s supposed to be at the store; it’s taken near to a year but he doesn’t freak out anymore when Sylar sends him on errands alone, doesn’t need to be at Sylar’s elbow all the time to know, deep inside himself, that Sylar will still be there when he gets back. Sylar seemed pretty serious about his demand for orange soda, so Luke figures he’ll stick around for that if nothing else.

He has twenty bucks, in crumpled dollar bills, stuffed inside his pocket, money meticulously saved from what Sylar gives him to buy comic books and pixie sticks to keep himself amused. They never call it an allowance, but they both know that’s what it is. Luke stares critically into the store windows that he passes, appraising and dismissing everything they have on show. The only things he finds that are halfway cool enough to give to Sylar – a bitching leather jacket that would fit him like a glove, a brand new watch to replace the broken one he wears – are so far out of Luke’s price range that he expects to be arrested any second, just for looking. For some reason he can’t quite explain, it seems important that, for Sylar, he doesn’t steal.

In desperation, he tries the Hallmark Store but it only makes him dizzy. The air reeks of scented candles, a sickly mix of sweet and floral that sticks in the back of his throat and makes him want to gag on principle. The shelves are lined with ceramic angels and teddy bears, oversized cards and balloon bouquets: the kind of stuff where if he gave it to Sylar, Luke wouldn’t blame him if he dumped him at the side the road without a second look back. He walks around aimlessly, up one aisle and down the next on a circuit of the store, searching for that elusive _something_ to show Sylar how he feels.

He’s on his second lap, loitering by a display of mugs that say things like ‘World’s Greatest Dad’, wondering how much Sylar would beat him if he got him one of those, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He spins around to find a frowning heavyset woman, middle aged, with kittens on her sweater. Her nametag proclaims her ‘Maud’.

“Can I help you, young man?” she asks suspiciously.

“Um…” Luke stammers, used to being accused of shoplifting, but not when he’s done nothing wrong.

“If you aren’t going to buy anything—”

“No, I…” Luke mumbles. And though he’s sneering at the childish butterfly clips she’s wearing in her hair, the wedding ring glimmering on her finger catches his eye. He figures, even if her taste is terrible, she’s still doing better than him.

“Oh hell!” He shoves his money at her, blushing _hard_ and staring at his feet. “I gotta get a gift and I don’t know…”

She stares at him for a second in silence, and then her face breaks into a grin. And Luke thinks, that when she’s smiling, she looks sorta like one of those TV moms, the kind that bake their kids cookies, the kind, Luke thinks, that don’t exist in real life. But here she is, taking him by the arm and leading him gently to a counter in the corner.

“A gift for someone special?” she asks.

“Uh huh. But, like, nothing gay, okay?” he blurts.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing.”

+

Luke heats a frozen apple pie with his hands and sticks two straws in a carton of chocolate milk. It isn’t diner food and milkshakes, but he thinks it’s close enough.

From behind him, Sylar says, “Where did this come from?”

Luke takes a deep breath and turns. Sylar’s warily eyeing the box of candy on his pillow, hair still wet from the shower he’s just stepped out of.

Luke doesn’t know why he doesn’t say, “Me,” only that his throat goes dry and he’s squeaking, “Housekeeping?” before he really thinks it through.

Sylar doesn’t look at the stains on the carpet or the damp marks on the ceiling and say, “The only maids you’ll find in this place are the ‘French’ ones down the hall charging a hundred bucks an hour, cleaning service not included.” He doesn’t say, “Even if they did exist, housekeeping doesn’t leave a whole box of candy on your bed.”

He doesn’t say, “Luke, don’t lie to me,” though Luke knows he felt that shiver down his spine.

He doesn’t, in fact, say anything at all. Instead he picks the box up, running his fingers over the shiny gold paper and tugging gently at the glittery ribbon while Luke holds his breath. He removes the lid with a weird kind of reverence, and when he does, Luke can see the fifteen chocolate truffles, each in their own nook of the plastic tray, white chocolate swirls on top making them look fancy. Sylar’s fingers hover over them, edging towards one before he chooses another and just as he pops it into his mouth, Luke has to turn away, not wanting to see Sylar’s face, in case he’s disappointed. He grabs the chocolate milk and takes a long, slurping drag, shoulders hunched over like he doesn’t care, but his stomach is twisted up in knots.

“Pretty good,” Sylar says. Luke nearly jumps out of his skin, because now he’s right behind him, close enough that Luke can feel his breath against his neck.

Luke turns and Sylar’s grinning, the slightest smudge of chocolate on the corner of his lips. He leans down and catches the other straw between his teeth, his nose nestled next to Luke’s as they both drink from the carton. Then, Luke blows into his straw and the chocolate milk bubbles up with a rumble. Instead of yelling at Luke for making a mess, Sylar only wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and laughs.

“So, um…” Luke asks, fingers twisting nervously in the sleeves of his hoody. “Do you wanna, like, go see a movie or something?”

“Or something,” Sylar says and pulls him into a kiss.


End file.
